I can be snobby and proud.
I lose myself in crowds
But rarely feel part of them.
Sometimes I feel myself superior
To other men.
But when my final breath
Is lost in death
There will be
No inferior or superior
Just common dust
I am good
Sometimes.
And lose myself in rhymes.
I am blood.
Love.
And in the end
I am words half heard
By readers and friends.
And gathering dust
On books
When I dated a young lady in waiting
Who said, “sir, are you fond of mating?”.
I said, “my dear Yvette!
We have only just met!”.
She said, “never keep a young lady waiting …!”
When a sceptical young lady named Claire
Found a ghost sitting in her chair,
She said, “I must be drunk
As I’m imagining a ghostly monk!”.
And that ghost he glared at Claire!
When a young lady named Miss Moon
Trusted me with all her secrets yesterday afternoon,
I told her about Lou
Who works in a zoo
And moonlights as a stripper on Saturday afternoons!
I hear the sound
Of timeless windchimes
As workmen hammer away.
Sometimes the profound
Is hard to say
So poets rhyme
Of windchimes
In late August
For all this must
Pass away.
There once was a poet named Cotton
Whose poetry has long since been forgotten.
I once met a pig
Who didn’t give a fig
For me or the poetry of Cotton!
There once was a man named Bill
Who lived on a very high hill.
His young mistress Sally
Lived in a valley
And his wife she lived with Bill!
I am a plaything
In the arms
Of the whispering wind.
She has charms.
Her summer breeze teases
Bringing delight.
But those who fight
The wind
When she is wild
Will find themselves a helpless child
Locked tight in arms
That have lost all their charms
And will pray
For the ungovernable wind
To stay her anarchic play
And the summer breeze
To gently tease once more.
But put no store
In that wild fickle thing,
The eternal wind.
The leaves lie thicker on the path
Than the last time I passed.
I can not count them.
But, like we men
All leaves fall
And rhymes
End
K Morris - Poet 